


Laid to Rest

by Everything4Everyone



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bullying, Dimension Travel, Fluff, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Michael, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Michael, Michael just needs to recover, Michael-centric, Past Child Abuse, Sad Michael, Some of the characters above are just mentioned, The poor child is traumatized, don't worry he'll be okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everything4Everyone/pseuds/Everything4Everyone
Summary: The flames of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place were supposed to be the end; for everybody. They were all supposed to die there. Yet Michael wakes up, surrounded by figures that shouldn't be there.Nothing is as it should be but, well, Michael's already been through so much, what's a bit of interdimensional travel going to do? A lot, as it turns out.Michael needs help recovering from the evil of his world, but will his family be able to help him before he decides to finish what the fire started?
Relationships: Elizabeth Afton & Michael Afton, Michael Afton & Animatronics, Michael Afton & Charlotte "Charlie" Emily, Michael Afton & Henry Emily, Michael Afton & The Crying Child, Michael Afton & William Afton | Dave Miller
Comments: 37
Kudos: 149





	1. Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first FNAF fanfiction! It's about Michael Afton, so if you don't like it please feel free to leave. He's going to be the older brother in this one, and he's going to be a very dark and sad character, so don't say I didn't warn you. This is going to be AU.
> 
> Also, I'm being purposefully vague as to the identity of the two people in the room. I wanted to see who could guess who they were! Whoever gets it right will get a shoutout in the notes of the chapter where their identities are revealed. Just remember that the identity of one does not cement the identity of the other and keep an open mind.
> 
> With that done, hope you enjoy!

**Da- I thin- 's wa- ng up-**

Michael fought to understand through the fog clouding his mind. There was noise… it sounded almost like a voice, but disjointed, parts of it fading away so he couldn't hear it.

**Char- wha- 's hi- atus-**

Was this death? He hasn't expected this… Everything seemed so blurry, and he felt heavy, like something was pinning him down. His thoughts were slow and muddled and he wasn't sure if he could do anything.

**-ichae- an y- ear m-**

Was someone speaking? He thought he heard something, voices, sounding so achingly familiar, like ones he'd loved and lost. The ones who'd stayed by him when he had nothing.

**-urry- e're lo- ng hi-**

He felt himself slipping back into the fog that had overtaken him, beginning to drift away. Was he dead yet? The fire should have been enough to kill him once and for all, but here he was, still somehow clinging to some semblance of life.

**-amn it- wasn't ex- ing th-**

How long was this going to last? He just wanted to rest… why wouldn't the world just let him die? He'd did his part, saved his family, gotten the children's vengeance, set everyone free… what else was there left to do now? Had someone survived the fire? Had his father once more risen from the grave to torment him?

**Come o- rk dam- ease**

He was lying on… a table? It felt like a table, made of metal, and his spine was bent back unnaturally. He was screaming. Why was he screaming? He couldn't feel anything… was this hell? Had the universe decided that he hadn't suffered enough in life, that he had been that bad of a person that he deserved eternal torment?

**-lease**

He wasn't making any sound. And he wasn't moving either. He wasn't even sure if he could move, his body heavy and rigid, weighed down with something Michael couldn't explain. 

**-lease, Micha-**

But how could he scream without making any sound? How could he arch his back without moving? How could he be in such pain when he could barely feel?

**-ake up-**

The voice was getting clearer now, sounding so much like someone he knew that Michael wanted to cry, would have cried if he knew he could. 

**-ake up, Michae-**

He sounded so sad, so desperate… what had happened? Everything had gone to plan, right? They'd done it, hadn't they? He'd freed everyone, felt their souls ascend into the heavens, sensed his father's soul plummet into the deepest darkest pits of hell, stood in the fire and felt himself burn.

**WAKE UP!**

Michael's eyes shot open, feeling like they had been made of stone. His eyelids were heavy and seemed to almost glue themselves open, forcing him to look up at the figures looking over him.

There were two, one noticeably shorter than the other, but only by a few inches. The shorter one had long hair swept behind their shoulders and the other had short hair.

He couldn't see any more than their silhouettes, but they reminded him so painfully of the people he'd lost that he choked, throat seizing painfully as if he'd been without water for a very long time. 

He felt like he was made of concrete, every movement thick and heavy as he struggled to so much as breathe, his vision swimming as he fought for air.

Distantly, he registered how strange it felt to actually need air. He hadn't needed air for many years by now, so actually needing it, and not getting it, felt foreign. 

Why did he need to breathe? What exactly had happened to him to make him this way? The lack of pain was unsettling, the heavy blankness unnerving, the hovering figures painfully familiar.

If this was hell, then he was surprised. He would have thought it to be a lot worse- sure, he didn't exactly feel very good right now, and he was pretty sure he was flatlining and he most definitely needed to breathe within the next minute or so, but he still felt better then he had in years.

No matter how strange he felt, he felt _ alive, _ and that was all that mattered at that moment. It didn't matter if this was heaven or hell or something in between, he felt alive for the first time in years and that was worth all the pain.

He must have blacked out for a second, because the next thing he knew was hands gently pushing him into a more upright position, suddenly a whole lot closer than they should have been  _ no no no too close tooclosetooclosegetawayGETAWAYGETAWAY  _ and he didn't remember any of it.

His eyes unwillingly rolled over to look at the taller figure, stupid childish hands wanting to grab onto the man and never let him go, to hide behind him and let himself believe, if only for a moment, that everything would be okay.

But no. The man who had once comforted him as a child was long gone, brought to his knees by devastating loss and finally lost for good in the raging flames Michael himself had set.

He knew he should probably feel more guilty; he'd killed a lot of people, probably. None of the places had ever had anyone really living in them when they burned, but every death caused by Springtrap and Golden Freddy and Ennard and all the other animatronics, all the children and every lost night security guard… they were all his fault.

Besides, he was too old to be running to the grown-ups every time he got a nightmare or a boo-boo. He could handle himself, even if he didn't want to.

It was stupid and childish to want the man who had already been there, who had never let him down, who had always cared… he was too old for that now.

So instead of grabbing the man and pulling himself closer, Michael forced his eyes to focus on his face a bit more, still unable to see properly.

Vaguely, he understood that the seizure-type thing must have stopped, that he'd stopped convulsing and twisting and that his mind had sorted itself out. 

He didn't care. He was supposed to be dead, either burning alongside his father in hell or finally resting in heaven or in any of the millions of other afterlives he'd heard about.

Nowhere had he heard that  _ this _ would happen after death.

It was surreal, unknown… he hadn't been on a metal table like this in years, hadn't been on one not strapped down in even longer. It was… kind, almost, compared to what he was used to, but he still couldn't help the distrust.

He was supposed to be dead. The silhouettes hovering over him, clearer but still unknown while looking so heartbreakingly familiar, were supposed to be dead. He'd buried the empty coffin for one himself, knowing that he would never see her again. The other one had never had a funeral of any sort, and probably never would, his body long lost to the raging fires of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place.

To his surprise, Michael felt a tear slip down his face, not thick and heavy with blood and oil and other things that really weren't meant to be in tears, but actual tears, thin and light and clear, and that was what caused his breakdown.

He didn't know exactly how it happened, but the next thing he knew he was curled into a tight little ball sobbing his heart out. He hadn't cried very much, not that he could remember, not even as a child. He had grown out of that far too quickly. And once he'd reached ten, the only tears he could remember shedding were those of pain, when his body hurt too much to keep the tears inside. The only exception he could think of was in his final moments, standing there in the fire and watching everything burn to ashes, he'd shed tears of pure joy, tinged with beautiful relief. 

He couldn't remember a single moment like this, just curled up and letting himself grieve for everything that had happened. The terror and horror that had stretched over more years then he could count was finally over. The children could finally rest. His family was finally free…

He'd never been so happy in all his life. 

Finally, his tears ran dry and he just laid there, exhausted. He felt like he'd just made it through a nightshift on a Saturday, the worst day for animatronic attacks. 

The last thing he remembered before passing out completely was the man's soothing voice, which had carried him through many long nights and many hard years, which had soothed him to sleep and comforted him when he was hurt, gently whispering to him.

_ It's okay now, Michael. Go to sleep.. hush. You can let go now. I promise I'll be here. Everything is okay. _

And with that, Michael finally let himself sleep.


	2. Awake

When Michael woke up, everything was much clearer. He could see and hear and everything didn't seem quite as blurry. 

He wasn't on the table anymore; instead he was lying on a bed, one that seemed far too soft. He didn't think he'd ever slept on anything this soft before, except for maybe when he was a baby, before Eli had been born. Maybe before his mother…

Groaning slightly, Michael rolled over, wincing slightly as his head cracked against the floorboards. It barely hurt, but the fact that it hurt at all was surprising. It had been years since he'd felt pain from something so small. His nerves had been shot long ago, and he could only feel pain from major things, like burning to death or getting stabbed.

Oddly enough, the hard floor felt much more comfortable, probably because Michael had been sleeping on lumpy mattresses and hard couches as long as he could remember. The hardwood floor was actually more comfortable than several of his beds, and he didn't even want to think about the last couch he'd owned.

Michael stared blankly at the ceiling. It was almost the same as it had been when he was a child; he remembered this room now. This was where he'd slept many times. This was the room he'd spent years in, usually under the bed or in the closet. He'd loved the closet. 

They'd changed the bed. Now it was a queen size, with crimson sheets instead of ebony. The mattress was far softer than he remembered, probably right out of the box and name brand. They could afford it; they were rich. 

It was nice to have the black sheets gone. They'd only had them because the black covered up the stains better and he kept ruining all the others.

He guessed he hadn't been dreaming then. Still, something was off. The room looked pristine, untouched, but not in a guest room sort of way, more of the way that a room gets when its inhabitants have all left but the room is still kept as if they might come back at any moment. 

It was the kind of room one would keep for a beloved relative who had passed away, as if they were only away for a few days and not gone for good, or someone who had gone missing.

No one had slept in this room for a very long time.

There were other small things. The divot on the ceiling from when he'd been six and tried to kill a spider with a butter knife was completely gone. The walls had a lighter shade of cream. The one uneven floorboard that they'd never gotten around to fixing wasn't digging into his back.

It was his room, but at the same time, it wasn't.

Grumbling slightly, Michael rolled over again, this time purposely rolling under the bed so the sheets hung off the sides and his him from view.

They'd know where he was; he'd always hid, whether it was intentional or not. Most of the time he didn't even know he was hiding until someone called him out on it… Not like anyone had been around to do that lately.

Michael curled up into a ball, arms wrapping around himself and tucking himself into as small a person as he could manage. It certainly helped that he'd always been short and skinny.

He wondered, though. If his brother, his sister, had survived, would they have been taller than him? It was likely. He'd been almost a head shorter than most of the other kids his age, and had looked ridiculous when standing with older kids, while his siblings had been more average for their heights.

If they had survived, what would it have been like? His last few encounters with his sister, first as Baby and then as Ennard, had shown her to be drastically different. If they came back to life, what would that be like?

Eli had learned patience. She had learned how to wait and pretend, to trick and lie. She was almost nothing like the spoiled little brat she'd been as a child.

Chris… Chris had learned peace. Forgiveness, maybe. Pain, betrayal, the agony of the bite, the coma. He hadn't lived very long after the bite; a few months, or so Michael thought.

The part he remembered clearest about that time was a whispered apology, an unkept promise, and small, trembling hands reaching out to turn off the machines.

No one had understood why he'd done it. Chris had actually had a very high chance of survival, though a low one of waking up anytime soon. The hospital had expressed its belief that he would survive and would be awake within the next couple of years. Everything seemed okay.

And then Michael had reached out and pulled the plug, against all logic, and hearing his brother flatline had only filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief.

Whatever Chris had been experiencing in that coma, Michael had felt nothing but relief at the thought of him being out of it. He'd known, somewhere deep inside his soul, that his brother had needed help, and he had done the only thing he could think of.

Killing his brother, not once but twice, had hurt. It had pulled at his soul and torn at his heart, ripped him to shreds and then didn't even bother to pick up the pieces.

No matter what had happened to either of them afterwards, Michael hoped that Chris was in a better place now.

A sudden wave of cold washed over him, causing Michael to shiver and curl up tighter. He briefly wished he'd thought to grab a blanket, but he was frozen in place, limbs glued together by fear. 

He hadn't expected... no, he hadn't even wanted to survive the fire. Whatever had happened after that was me and strange and different and so achingly familiar it hurt.

Michael hadn't wanted to survive without anyone. He hadn't wanted to live without his family.

He'd given up everything and yet the world kept handing things back to him. He'd given away everything he had, even when he had nothing, and somehow it was all returned to him.

Every time he lost his life, every friend and family member who'd died, everything he lost was simply given back to him, but twisted, mangled, dark. Everything had been returned to him in some way or another, but none of it was as it had been.

He wished he'd…

Michael flinched as he heard gentle footsteps, curling himself as small as he could get. He knew who it was, who it had to be, but he didn't want to believe it. If she was here, then he'd have to admit the truth…

He wasn't, couldn't be, in his own world.

In his world, all these people had finally been laid to rest. This house had long ago been remodelled and sold. 

In his world, Michael would be dead.

Dimension hopping didn't seem too strange. After everything that had happened, with the murders and possessions and all the other mysterious things that he still didn't have a proper answer to, dimension hopping seemed a bit… ordinary, he guessed. 

God, he hoped he was just dreaming. If he'd actually switched dimensions, that meant he'd have to face everything he'd lost, everything he'd left behind. He might have to face… he didn't want to face them.

He hoped he didn't have to run into the him from this world, if there was one. He didn't want to have to know how broken he was.

He hoped there weren't any mirrors around; if he was no longer a walking corpse, then that meant he looked like his father again. He'd always hated that, the fact that no matter what he did he looked like his father. That had been the one relief about being a corpse; he had looked very little like his father then.

The footsteps stopped in front of the bed. Michael curled tighter, hoping that she would just go away. He couldn't deal with facing her right now, with seeing her again. The last time they'd met had been in the flames of Pizza Place, when he'd watched the rage and hatred fade from her eyes. She'd looked at him and she  _ saw _ him, and he had felt such relief. 

That version of her was free now, the hateful child she'd become faded away as she took her rightful place in the heavens. 

This version of her had gone through none of that, and he didn't want to look at her and see the mangled entity she had become after her untimely death at the hands of his father. 

He didn't want to ruin her, poison her. It had been his fault she'd died, and he couldn't face her knowing that it had been his fault that she had never grown up in his world, forever trapped within a cold metal tomb. 

He could hear her crouch down, hear her sharp intake of breath at his appearance. "Oh, Michael…" she whispered, and Michael felt his heart crack a little more at the clear heartbreak in her tone. "It's okay. I'm here."

And with that, she was under the bed with him, slender arms that were so much bigger than he remembered wrapping around him as he gasped for breath, tears pouring down his face as sobs tore their way out of his chest.

No one had hugged him in years… Henry might've, but they hadn't met face-to-face and had only communicated over the phone. 

No one had even touched him in decades. Being a rotten corpse tended to dissuade most contact, and it wasn't like he had any friends or family even before that who could touch him. The most he'd done was shake hands with a few people at his jobs.

Her touch burned against his skin, his automatic reaction to push her away and cringe into himself, keep her away from him, keep her safe…

He didn’t move. He didn’t even think he could. No matter how he felt, she was more important, and if she wanted to hug him, who was he to deny her? Who cared that it felt like his skin was crawling off his body and that her touch felt like fire against him, if she wanted to hug him then he would let her do it.

It was his fault anyway.

She finally pulled back long after his sobs stopped, and he turned over to face her, eyes avoiding hers. “Hey,” he greeted, voice scratchy from crying but still sounding better than it had it years, and when had it last been this easy to talk? He couldn’t remember. 

“Hey, Michael,” she greeted back, her voice so full of love and concern that Michael almost broke down again. “It’s probably been a while, hasn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

“Let’s get you out of here, okay?” Her hand reached out, grasping his before he could flinch away, dragging him out with an ease that if either of them had been anyone else he would have been embarrassed by. She hauled him to his feet in seconds, and he swayed slightly as he tried to get his feet under him. 

Her bell-like laugh echoed through the room as he looked around, still unable to believe that this was his. It looked so different than his own had when he’d been a child.

She must have noticed him looking around, because her laugh gentled as she smiled. “Do you like it? We figured it’s probably pretty different to you.”

Michael managed to nod, still thrown by the way she was acting. He didn’t know what had happened between her and the Michael of this world, but her being so friendly when he was used to her wanting to murder him was disorienting. 

Her hand squeezed his tightly for a moment before she started walking, pulling him along with her. “Come on. He’s waiting for you. He figured it’d be best for me to come to get you because he doesn’t know what happened between him and you in your world and we figured I was less frightening. If nothing else, I’m smaller and a girl, and girls are usually seen as less frightening. I don’t know why; usually he’s the one who has to stop me when I get mad, and he’s really calm, like super calm, even when he’s really freaked. I mean, he can be really scary when he’d furious; he stays so calm it’s kinda terrifying… but you probably know that, don’t you? You seemed to recognize us earlier, at least. You know who I am, right?”

Stunned, Michael nodded. She’d been a big talker when she was younger, he remembered, though she wasn’t much of a talker by the time she’d died. It seemed like she never broke the habit when she lived, but he found he didn’t mind too much. Her talking reminded him that she was alive, that she had survived.

She led him down a few hallways, then turned and started down a flight of stairs. Michael had forgotten just how big this house was. It only had two floors, but it also had an attic and a basement, and each floor was huge. He’d gotten lost once as a child and had somehow managed to not be found for over sixteen hours. He hadn’t understood why everyone was crying when he found them, wandering into the kitchen at three a.m. for a snack. He hadn’t even known he was lost.

There wasn’t a door to the kitchen, just an open entryway, but they hesitated before entering. “You don’t have to enter if you don’t want to, you know,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll understand if you don’t want to see him.” 

Michael shook his head. “It’ll be okay. I… I need to see him, I think. I… I’ll probably be here for a while, anyway… might as well see him now instead of putting it off.”

She disentangled herself reluctantly, stepping back a few feet and watching him with hawk eyes. She’d always been almost fiercely protective. That had gotten her in trouble more times than he could count. It was good to know that this version of her had some similarities to the one he’d known and loved. 

Hesitating at the door, Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of cool air rushing through his lungs. He allowed himself one long moment of that, time seemingly suspended for that one moment.

Then he steeled himself, opened his eyes, and walked into the kitchen.

He was there, just as she had said he would be, sitting at the table with a half-empty mug of black coffee, obviously waiting for him. He smiled as Michael hesitated, raising his head to meet the younger man’s eyes. “Hello, Michael. It’s good to see you again.”

Michael smiled back hesitantly, the muscles in his face pulling strangely. He’d forgotten what smiling felt like. “Hey,” he greeted softly, eyes flickering to the wooden floor. The coffee stain from that time when he’d been eleven and accidentally snuck up on Henry was gone. The event had probably never happened in this world. 

“Would you come here, Michael? Let me get a good look at you,” the man requested. Michael tensed for a moment, throat trying to seize up, but shuffled closer, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor as he stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could smell the hazelnut coffee on the table. 

A hand cupped his chin, gently tilting his head up until their eyes met, then held it there, grip gentle but unrelenting. Michael swallowed, mouth dry, and he wished he had the courage to close his eyes, to hide from the searching, gentle, so concerned eyes.

But Michael had always been a coward, so he just stood there, mouth dry and heart pounding, allowing the man before him to search his very soul, not even attempting to escape. 

The eyes before him gentled suddenly, the hand cupping his chin loosening. Michael would have no trouble escaping now if he chose to run. And he could, so easily. It would be nothing compared to escaping even the easiest animatronic. 

Yet he didn’t move. He wasn’t going to run; he didn’t even think he could. He was pinned in place by that compassionate gaze, so similar to the last time he had seen it, separated only by a wall of flames.

The grip on him was suddenly gone, arms wrapping around his back instead, pulling him close to the older man. Startled, Michael automatically raised his arms to encircle his figure, freezing as his head was lowered onto his shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Michael. I’ve really missed you.”

The words were calm, but Michael could recognize the emotion behind them. He’d truly been missed, and though he might not be the Michael from this world, they wanted him there.

For once, Michael felt absolutely no shame in crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you figured out who they are yet? Comment if you think you know!


	3. Aware

Michael stared awkwardly at the mug of tea in his hands, watching the steam rise so he didn’t have to look at the man in front of him. He always felt awkward after crying, and this time was no different. 

Had he really cried three times since coming here? That was more than he’d cried in decades. He’d cried in the fire. He’d cried after surviving being Scooped. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried before that. 

A warm hand rested on his, comforting and burning all at once. His skin itched, but Michael ignored it to look up at the man in front of him, smiling softly down at him. He wanted to smile back, but couldn’t. This man had taken care of him when he’d just randomly fallen into their universe, probably saved his life, and was now taking care of him when his own Michael might not be there. 

“What now?” he asked, and he winced at the sound of his own voice, rough and scratchy around the edges and sounding so empty, almost reminiscent of the way it had been before he’d died in the fire. 

The man shrugged, eyes still full of that burning compassion. “Whatever you want, I guess. You can stay here with us, if you want. It’s been just the two of us here for a while, and your room hasn’t been used since… well, it’s been sitting empty for a while. We could use the company… and we’ve both missed you. It’s been a long time, Michael.”

He paused for a moment to let it sink in and Michael stared, mind whirring. He could… he could stay here? He guessed that meant that there was no other Michael in the picture who might be jealous, but… what had happened in this world then? And were they really so willing to let him stay? He was practically a stranger to them, no matter how similar to their Michael he might be. 

“Or,” he continued, and Michael’s attention snapped to him, “if you don’t want to stay with us, there are other options. You could get your own place-I’d be more than willing to pay for it. You could also get a motel, or find someone else to live with. If you really wanted to, I suppose you could live on the streets… it’s your choice, Michael.”

Sitting back, Michael considered his options. He could live in a motel or on the streets, but he didn’t really want to. That left staying with them or getting his own place.

...he just really didn’t want to be alone. 

Decision made, he looked up at the man who had always cared for him, looking him right in the eye, and asked as confidently as he could, “Could I stay here?”

He knew that he had made the right choice as soon as he saw the man’s delighted smile. “Of course you can! You can have your old room back… that’s the one you woke up in. If you don’t like anything then you can change it, of course… please don’t feel obliged to leave anything the way it is, it’s been empty for a while. No one’s been using it.”

He stood up, carefully taking Michael’s hand and leading him out of the kitchen, mugs abandoned on the table. He glanced back for a moment, wondering if they were really going to leave them there; the coffee would be a pain to clean if they left it like that.

He felt… strange, being treated so gently. Neither of them had touched him in any other way than soft and careful, leading him around like he was a child, holding him so gently that he couldn't even think to fight against them.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like this, like he was young and precious and fragile. When someone had been gentle with him.

Usually when someone touched him it was because he'd been in their way when they were walking. If they touched him on purpose, it almost always hurt. His decayed flesh had been terribly fragile after being Scooped, and all but the gentlest of touches hurt and tore at him.

Scraptrap had grabbed his wrist once, not intending to hurt him, just wanting him to stay still, and he'd snapped the bones in half without even trying. Michael hadn't been able to use that hand as well after that, but at least Scraptrap had never gone for his wrist again.

Lefty had broken a bunch of his ribs once, but that had been by accident. He hadn't meant to hurt him, but she'd wrapped his arms around Michael's waist, as gently as she could, only trying to give him a hug, and what felt like half his ribs all snapped at once. 

He'd apologized afterwards, feeling really guilty, but Michael had told her not to worry about it. He broke easily as a corpse anyway.

But these people… they were so _ gentle _ . Their grasps on his wrist never hurt, never bruised, never even felt sore. They'd been light enough he'd barely even felt them. Their purposefully careful hugs, like his ribs would still break at any won't move. The way his chin had been cupped, so gently it probably couldn't have hurt a butterfly, the hands resting in his…

It felt like he was still fragile, still breakable. It was how he'd wanted to be touched when he could break, when any wrong move was enough to tear him apart, when it felt like he would shatter if he fell.

It was all so gentle, so careful, treating him so softly… no one had ever acted like that toward him before. He’d sometimes seen parents with their young children, but no one had ever done that to him. His own family had never been overly gentle with anything except mechanics, and even then only out of necessity. Springlocks had to be treated gently or accidents would happen. They had to be kept in the right places and treated the right way, and even then it sometimes wasn’t enough. 

Why were they doing it? Anger he could deal with, harsh grips and furious shouts and rough pushes and things like that, he could deal with. Those he knew how to shake off. Those he could fight against. This… this he had no defence against. He had no idea how to deal with them this time, their gentle movements and careful touches and sweet voices.

No one had ever acted like that toward him before, and Michael was left confused and overwhelmed, following as he was led like a child to his room.

The thing was, they weren’t treating him like a child. Every interaction he’d had with them had been with both participants being fully functioning adults. Neither of them had done anything to treat him like a child, or like he couldn’t do anything.

How had they known though? They weren’t from his world and it didn’t seem like there was a Michael in the picture in this one, and he doubted that this Michael had the same problems with needing to be treated gently.

Then again… Michael thought back to when he’d been very young, not long after Eli had been born. He’d been diagnosed with type IV osteogenesis imperfecta, like his father had before him. It hadn’t really affected his life all that much that he could remember but at times, especially when he’d been younger, it had meant that his bones would fracture and break easily.

Could that be why they were being so gentle? Maybe this Michael had the same condition but maybe it was worse than his? Or maybe they didn’t know if he had it or not, or if his was worse than theirs.

Another thought struck him, almost causing him to stop right in the middle of the hallway. What if… had they  _ lost _ their Michael? Not even that he just wasn’t in their life, but that he was actually  _ dead _ or missing or something? That could explain why they were so careful; they could be afraid of losing him again. 

But who would miss  _ him?  _ It was probably the first option, a disease or something that had made him easier to break so they had to be gentle. That was the only thing that made sense. 

Even at his highest point, no one had ever missed him. He’d been loved, yes, but sometimes just love wasn’t enough, especially when most of it was obligatory. His parents and siblings were  _ supposed _ to love him. But just because they had to love him didn’t mean they had to  _ care _ about him. 

A hand reached out in front of him, bumping into his chest and stopping him short. He instinctively reached up, clutching it, ready to push away if it started to hurt.

Scraptrap had loved doing that, putting an arm across his chest to stop him in his tracks and then applying pressure. There hadn’t been very much danger, apart from that one time his chest had collapsed, but it had still hurt a lot. 

It hadn’t taken very much to hurt him, especially near the end. 

Michael looked up into his eyes, surprised. He hadn’t been expecting to come up against something from Scraptrap in this universe, especially in the time period they were in. The man standing beside him now was not Scraptrap, had almost nothing to do with him in this world. Scraptrap didn’t exist here and hopefully never would.

Michael would do anything to prevent this world from going the same way as the other one.  _ Anything. _

The man smiled down at him, still as calm as he’d always been, eyes still sad but brighter than he’d seen in a while. "I… I don't know where you came from, Michael," he began, "or how you got here. I don't know what happened in your world, or how it compares to you here, but… I'm so glad to see you again."

He drew Michael in for a hug, enclosing him gently in soft layers of careful love, so loose and loving and gentle that Michael couldn't have broken free if he'd tried.

No one had ever held him that gently before. No one had ever hugged him and told him they were glad to see him. No one had ever touched him so gently, spoken so compassionately, allowed him so freely. 

What was wrong with these people? His version of them had never been like this toward him, even when he’d been young and fragile. 

What had happened to him in this world that had made everyone treat him so strangely? Why was everyone so gentle? He didn’t understand it.

Every inch of his skin tingled and burned with the touch, and he simultaneously wanted to press closer and get as much contact as he could and pull away and make it stop burning. He wanted it so badly, but he also wanted to run away and avoid it.

He hadn’t been properly touched in so long…

Before he could decide what to do, he was being released, arms unwrapping from around him and distance allowed between them. He found himself unconsciously leaning in, not wanting to be separated, but pulled himself back. Now was not the time to act like a child. He was an adult…

Well… looking down on himself, Michael did admit that his physical body appeared to be in its early to mid twenties, several decades younger than he had been in his own world.

It was strange to be this young again. Almost as strange as it was to be alive or to be in a different dimension. He didn’t think anything could truly surprise him at this point-well, unless his father was a ballet dancer and his mother was alive. That would be surprising. 

“Well, I’ll let you get reacquainted with your room a bit,” the man said, looking over Michael and looking distinctly like he really didn’t want to let the younger man leave his sight for even a second. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

Michael nodded, slipping inside his room and closing the door, taking a deep breath and relishing in the feeling of air moving through his lungs. 

So, he was in a different dimension. He was currently fully alive and in his twenties. It didn’t look like there were any possessed animatronics running around, but he’d have to ask. The Michael of this world didn’t seem to be in the picture at all to his knowledge, which was strange for him. His world had always been determined to keep him close to his family, tied by blood and name and love and death. 

Everything was so strange now… he wondered if it would last. Maybe he was dreaming, or this was Hell? Who knew… he certainly didn’t.

He’d ask tomorrow how things were here. There were definitely some major differences, not the least of which being that he was alive. He probably looked just like his father again, and he was older than he’d been before he’d died. Everybody seemed to be alive and happy, and it seemed like the terrible things that had happened in his world never happened here.

He wondered if the animatronics existed. Had he bullied Chris? Was he friends with Eli and Charlie? What was his relationships with everyone? He didn’t know. Where even was he? Had he left, was he maybe working somewhere, or he’d tried to get away from his family?

Was his family… broken? Or had it actually managed to stay together? Had his parents divorced or died or had they managed to stay together? 

There was a lot he needed to know if he wanted to get by here. He didn’t know how long he would be here, or if this was permanent, or if he was just in a coma or something, having miraculously survived the fire. Maybe someone had kidnapped him and was pumping him full of drugs and he was an experiment.

Whatever it was, he knew he needed to get adjusted-and fast. Judging by his age, he was out of school, but did he want to go to college? He hadn’t gotten the chance in his other life, having died at nineteen. He hadn’t even finished high school, much less had even a chance for college. What about a job? Should he get one of those? He was still used to nightshifts, so one of those might be a nice choice. His housing was covered, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that, but would he be expected to get his own food?

Food… god, it had been so long since he’d eaten… he’d been somewhere around sixty when he’d died, probably a few years younger. He hadn’t really kept track of time, but that meant he’d gone almost four decades without food. How would it feel? Could he taste it? Would he be able to remember eating habits and how to tell when he was full or hungry?

God, everything was so confusing, and he needed help… help he couldn’t have. No one had ever helped him, not when he really needed it. He’d gotten help only a few times over the long four decades since his death, and he hadn’t really ever been helped too much when he’d been a child. 

Michael sighed, walking over to his bed and running a hand over the sheets. They were soft silk, high quality, and probably cost hundreds of dollars.

Michael had grown up rich, surrounded by rich people. His mother had come from a rich family; both Henry and his father had gotten rich because of their mechanical genius. They would have been rich even without the animatronics; the diner had just been something for fun that had ended up raking in millions when combined with Junior’s. Yet, he wasn’t sure if he could manage it.

After his father had died, he’d inherited everything. He’d attended everything remotely, got all the legal things done, and had hired people to take care of the house. Apart from that, he’d never touched anything of it, instead working for his own money. He’d been living off the pitiful minimum wage he’d gotten from nightshifts and what charity he got that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have money. Yes, Pizza Place had brought in money, but he’d honestly never used any of it. He’d been more focused on his job than actually trying to live at all.

Even if he’d been alive all those years, he’d never felt like it. He’d never acted like it, instead just… existing, day after day, waiting for the day he could finally die.

And here it came, and it was nothing like he’d expected. What had even happened to get him over here?

Sighing, Michael turned away from the bed. It had been made in the few minutes he’d been gone, already looking perfect and clean. He didn’t want to touch it. He felt so, so, dirty, and didn’t want to touch,  _ contaminate,  _ anything. 

Instead, he went over to the closet, opening it with no noise. The hinges had squeaked in his world, nobody having bothered to fix them. He crept inside slowly, silently closing the door behind him, cloaking himself in warm, musty darkness that was so familiar from the nightmares he’d had when Chris had been in his coma.

He’d hated those nightmares, how every single night he’d been an aggressor, hiding in the closet, waiting to attack, having no control over himself. He’d hated the nights where he’d caught him, where he’d attacked so brutally, tearing his little brother apart… 

He’d hated that, but he’d always felt safe in closets, even when he’d been that strange, distorted fox, so into the closet he went, curling up into a tiny ball behind the clothes that were hung up, none of them his.

They’d find him pretty quickly, he knew that, but he still felt safe here, curled up small behind racks and layers of clothing, hidden away from the world. So for now, hidden away, a precious little secret that only a few know, in a world that no one can find him in, he gave in, finally allowing himself to mourn all that had been lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about how long this took and how short is it, but at least I updated! I hope you like it! Please send in your guesses for who you think the two people are, and I promise they'll be revealed soon! We need to know their identities for the story to be told, after all.


End file.
